Knox nodded, then made a note on his pad. Mustafin continued, “The change in Hong Kong was easy to track because several emails indicated it was about to happen. But catching a single phone call or email with crucial information is getting harder.”
Knox agreed. “Having enough qualified people is going to be more challenging, particularly since we don’t want them to know what they’re doing.”
“Exactly,” added Kamali. “The good news is that the analysts don’t have to be sitting in the U.S. We’re hiring in Asia, South America, and Africa. And we’re using their local conflicts to recruit bright people into what they think is their cause’s intelligence effort. We just want you to know that despite everything, the system is not perfect. And soon we’ll have to expand or reorganize the duty officer slot. There’s so much information coming in that it’s difficult for one person to digest and act on it all.”
“OK. But we obviously have to be careful with duty officers. We must know and trust them completely—or have them on a short leash. And that’s just to handle the regular business intercepts—they can never work on or know about our Special Operations. Even on the business side we have to give them a vivid picture of what will happen if they betray us. Hopefully your share of our RTI profits will continue to motivate you to use caution.” They both nodded. “Then let’s get on to the most recent projects.”
Kamali began, “We now have eight major automobile manufacturers around the world paying us a million dollars a month for our reports on their competitors. Of course none of them knows that our sources are their competitors’ emails and phone calls. Ditto in aircraft, weapons manufacture, banking and pharmaceuticals. Next month we’ll begin the same in oil and gas—software, computer, and securities firms are slated by the end of the summer. Our total business-related gross is now about $150 million per month and climbing.
“In the past thirty days we made almost $40 million from people and firms who pay us to remain silent about what we know about them. And the big number, as usual, was the $825 million we netted on third-party stock purchases and sales. Our portfolio of non-USNet related stocks is now well over $50 billion.”
Mustafin glanced at his notes and continued. “As for our other work, through our foundations and charities, Allah be praised, we are now supporting the campaigns of 215 local and regional Muslim officials in Europe, and 73 here in the US. In every major mosque in America we have at least two members of the Brotherhood, funded by us, who are insuring that pure Islam is taught and preached. Through the foundation in Detroit, we’re secretly funding the Brotherhood as community organizers in twenty American cities, and we expect to add ten more this year.”
“How about buying the churches?” Knox asked.
Mustafin smiled. “It’s working well. So far our ‘Foundation of Faith’ has purchased—let’s see—368 churches and leased the buildings back to their congregations. They need the cash for renovations, and the rent we charge them is very low. Taxes are up, giving is down, and our foundation’s cash is very attractive to a strapped congregation. Many at each church won’t be alive in twenty years when their lease is not renewed and their house of blasphemy becomes a house of worship for Allah. At the current rate, we should purchase over a thousand churches in most US cities and suburbs, complete with all the required zoning and parking, within the next three years. Then, starting in about ten years, overnight we will have mosques everywhere.”
Knox and Kamali glanced at each other and nodded as Mustafin continued.
“Simon North reports from Moscow that by this Friday we should close on the controlling interest in NovySvet and their new missile targeting system. No one has anything like it, and, once the capability is fully developed, we should be able to use it against our enemies with great results. Of course Simon doesn’t know who he is working for, and we’ll keep him as the bridge until we figure out what to do with it.”
“But we need a long range missile delivery system equal to this new technology,” Knox injected.
“Yes. And we have the RTI filters set to look for anything that could lead to buying or securing one by any means,” Kamali replied.
Mustafin continued. “On Special Operations, of course our greatest project is the Ramadan Gifts planned for this fall. Salim’s hard work in the Army for these many years is about to create great results. We have one martyr for New York, and one for Los Angeles. The destruction and confusion will be immense. Salim has five Stinger missiles hidden in El Paso around Fort Bliss. Everything appears to be on track.”
“Finally, we have a lot of Special Operation political action in progress, as you know. Our trial run with this initiative is to stop President Harper’s bill to regulate movies and the internet. We’re well into it, and we should see results over the next few days.”
“Good. The sooner the better,” Knox replied. “We’re about to acquire even more assets in southern California, and we need to squash any chance that censorship will come back. These people want all of the thrills that their money can buy from us. And, as long as they buy it, we might as well enjoy producing it.” He gave them a look. They knew of his habit of “interviewing” their youngest adult movie stars well into the night whenever he visited the west coast.
“And as we’ve discussed, using Special Operations for this political purpose is just a warm up. Now that Iran and Pakistan both have the bomb, we can bring more leverage to bear on the politicians to vote our way, and the information we have through RTI gives us huge leverage.” He smiled. “When we bring this pressure to bear, there will be unexpected votes from county councils to Congress that no one will believe. So use it well. Is that it?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Kamali, looking at his colleague, who nodded.
Rising to signal the end of their meeting, Knox said, “We’re in the middle of a lot of profitable projects, and, Allah willing, about to create a great defeat for this female Crusader President. As the Prophet instructed, we will either defeat her or destroy her. Keep up the good work, gentlemen, and keep me informed.”
It would be late in Tehran, but David knew that Omid didn’t mind. So as he drove home he used his cell phone to call the number that his IT people had helped him set up in Estonia, which then dialed Omid’s new, clean cell phone. Omid always worried that someone could be listening, but the USNet IT team assured David that the system was secure, particularly with the new phones that David had sent to Turkey, where one of Omid’s friends had picked them up on a business trip and returned with them to Iran. Nevertheless, Omid was rarely more specific than he had to be with his news or his requests, and so David responded in kind.
“Hello,” the familiar but groggy voice said in Farsi.
“Omid. Good morning, it’s David.” He could hear the relief as the young man switched to English.
“David! So good to hear you. Thanks for calling.”
“Of course. Are you OK?”
“Yes, yes we are fine. Thank you.”
“Allah be praised.”
“And thank you for the New Year’s presents.”
“They arrived OK?”
“Yes, and they are most helpful.”
“I wish I could do more to help. Please tell me how we can.”
“You are already a great help. Thank you. And I do have one request.”
David and Elizabeth had visited Tehran once, many years earlier, and Omid’s emailed pictures and calls kept them up to date on family and friends with whom they felt close. David had never met Goli, Omid’s new wife, but he hoped to help them come to the U.S., at least for a visit, since Omid seemed determined to stay and bring change to Iran.
“Cousin”—as Omid always called him—“I’ve uploaded a list of recipes that my uncle has used in his restaurant. It’s created some friction with him—he thinks they are family secrets. So I would like to understand better how to create a new website in an obscure location. Can you help us?”
David looked out at the suburbs through which
he drove and thought for the hundredth time about the risk that Omid was taking.
“Of course. Shall I have Abigail call you tomorrow? Shall she use the next number on the list?”
“Yes, my uncle is really upset with what we’ve done.”
“OK. We’ll do it. And I’ll fund whatever you and Abigail agree to.”
“Thank you, Cousin.”
“It’s not much, and it’s the least I can do, given what you and Goli do every day.”
They then traded news about their families.
As Omid was finishing the call, he said, “A friend was approached by some of the younger mullahs, who said that they’re tired of the same old dinners and want new recipes, like we’re offering.”
“Be very careful, Omid.”
“Yes. We’re checking. Thank you, Cousin.”
“I’ll give Elizabeth, Callie and Rob your news.”
“I hope to meet your children some day.”
“Yes. Here, at our home. And soon.”
“As Allah wills.”
“Stay safe, Omid.”
“I will, Cousin.”
6
FRIDAY, APRIL 15TH
Two mornings later Jamal was perspiring heavily as he drove his office supplies delivery truck under the arch at the entrance to the New Brighton School in northwest London. He had made this same run for three years, and the security guard at the gate waved him straight through. Before him was a large grass quadrangle, full of running and jumping elementary school students from England, the U.S. and most countries of the world, surrounded on all four sides by the two-story stone edifice of the historic institution.
As he glanced at the children, he knew that some of them were the sons and daughters of Muslims, but he recalled his imam’s instruction that since they were at this international school, side by side with infidels, they were not real Muslims.
Normally he drove halfway up on the left side of the playing field, then turned under an arch between the buildings and went around to a loading area in the back. But today, using a schedule supplied by other Brothers working as staff at the school, he timed his arrival to coincide with chapel for the older students in the building to his immediate left.
So he drove part of the way to the arch, then stopped the truck and got out. His hands were sweating, but he thought again of the large sum of money that would arrive at his home just two days hence—money that his parents, brothers and sisters desperately needed. From under the seat he pulled an AK-47 assault rifle with an extra large clip, and felt in his coat for the extra clips and the wireless trigger.
Jamal walked around the front of the truck; the children on the playing field were in plain sight. He flipped the selector to full automatic, raised the gun, and began shooting the children and the few teachers who were monitoring their play. After the first few shots, as children fell in bloody pools, others screamed and ran away. He calmly took down the ones on the far side of the field, ejected the spent clip, reloaded another, and kept firing.
He and his imam had calculated that twenty seconds should be the right amount of time to bring the maximum number of faces to the glass windows surrounding the quadrangle. That was about two long clips. So as the second clip emptied, Jamal screamed, “There is no god but Allah. Muhammad is the messenger of Allah!” and pushed the trigger on the radio in his pocket.
The truck was loaded to the top with explosives, surrounded by ball bearings and nails. The carnage at the school killed fifty-five students and injured two hundred.
From down the street a short message was sent via a handheld. Within five minutes Trevor Knox had read it.
Two hours later David had deplaned in Los Angeles but had then stopped with several others a few feet from the gate in front of a television screen, viewing the latest update on the mass murder of children in suburban London, including a clip from the statement of condolence to all of the families expressed by President Harper to the British Prime Minister, on behalf of all American citizens.
How incredibly senseless. What if Callie or Rob were at that school?
Standing next to him was a well dressed couple in their fifties who had been across the aisle from him on the plane. They had exchanged pleasantries during the flight. The husband now said to his wife, “Damn Muslims. Why are they always doing this? We should send them back to the desert.”
David continued to face the screen but heard himself say, “That McVeigh guy in Oklahoma City wasn’t a Muslim, and he killed hundreds.”
The man turned and looked at David, seeming to notice for the first time his slightly dark complexion. After a pause, he said, “Uh, you’re right. It’s not just Muslims. Lots of people are crazy. But you have to admit that the Muslims seem to revel in it, and you never hear about any Muslim trying to stop it.”
David turned his head slightly, not wanting to appear confrontational. “You’re right that you almost never hear. But there are Muslims trying to stop it. They just have to be very brave to stand up to suicidal thugs with guns. Like a German trying to stand up the Nazis.” He nodded and moved down the concourse, pulling out his handheld to read his messages. One of them concerned their new space in Moscow.
Friday 18:35
To: David Sawyer
From: Andrei Selivanov
Subj: Moscow Office Space
Dear Mr. Sawyer,
As you requested, we have done a preliminary study of available space.
In general, the market is rebounding, rates are starting to firm, but there are still ample choices of both first and second generation space.
I understand from your assistant that you are out of town until next week. In the interim, we have created a site for you with summary information, exterior pictures, and internal videos of the six most likely properties. Please go to http.207.438.229 and log in as DSawyer, password Exec to view the presentation. Let us know if any of these appear to be particularly feasible, or for some reason are not suitable. We look forward to seeing you soon in Moscow. Call or email with your input.
Andrei
Late that afternoon David parked his rental car in an empty space about twenty yards from the townhouse in Long Beach that he rented for Callie and her roommate. It was in a residential area of two- and three-story homes and apartments. Despite a long day of looking at adult movie properties, he was not tired. Like everyone else in America, he had been following the awful events at the school outside London, and USNet had just identified the terrorist as an English deliveryman from an Iranian family. Most world governments condemned the killings, but so far the Iranian government had been silent.
He thought again of the conversation in the airport. Has everyone gone mad, killing children in the name of God, or Allah, or Whomever? Surely, if there is a God, he will punish these people, not send them to heaven. You can’t do such things and not be punished!
He took a deep breath, rubbed his forehead, and opened the car door. He smelled outdoor grilling and heard children playing. From the backseat he took a bag with bread and cheeses, locked the car and walked up the sidewalk.
The townhouse had a small front yard and a covered doorstop. He crossed the yard, took another deep breath, and knocked.
He heard the latch move and the door opened. “Hi, Dad.”
He smiled. “Callie.”
She was dressed in a long blue skirt and white top with half sleeves. They hugged, then she stood aside.
He entered the living room. A breakfast room and kitchen were toward the back. Stairs on the right led to bedrooms. It was a typical rental unit with furnishings from a mid-range furniture store.
“Dad, this is Alex Spalding.”
The young man was dressed in gray slacks and a striped shirt. “Hello, Mr. Sawyer.”
David recognized the boy from the video; they shook hands.
“Hello, Alex.” He turned quickly. “Callie, here, I brought some hors d’oeuvres.”
“Great.” She took the bag, looked inside and smiled. “Let�
��s have some before we go out.” A dog barked next door. “Have a seat. Would you like some water or tea?”
“Water is fine.” He moved to a cushioned armchair across from the sofa. Callie went into the kitchen and began filling glasses.
Alex sat on the sofa and asked, “Did you have a good trip out?”
“Yes. Uneventful. And then a busy day.”
Callie returned with a glass for each of them. “And what have you been doing?”
“Uh, looking at properties. The usual real estate stuff.”
She smiled. “Good.” In the kitchen she put the hors d’oeuvres on a plate and then placed it on the coffee table, joining Alex on the sofa, her hands on her knees.
“Where’s Jane?” David asked.
“She’s visiting a sick uncle this weekend—he’s not expected to live long. She told me to tell you hello.”
“Thanks. So, I haven’t seen you since Christmas break. How are you?”
“Great. Studying hard. Exams will be in a little over a month. I’m rehearsing for the year-end musical. Maybe you and Mom can come out. How was the Persian New Year?”
He smiled. “It almost killed me. The rest of America doesn’t know about our national tradition, and so it turns out to be many late nights followed by many early mornings.”
As Alex sliced cheese, Sawyer asked, “And, Alex, where do you live?”
The young man turned quickly to Callie. “About two miles away. It’s not far. But not as nice as this.” He smiled at the older man.
The visual from the video rebooted in David’s mind.
The three sampled the cheese and chatted about Callie’s fine arts program, work, the Sawyers’ extended family, and Alex’s aspirations.
Enemy In the Room Page 6
